


The Seasons of Simon

by nerdistheword



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M, Sappy, SnowBaz, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch Loves Simon Snow, just sap, no plot its just baz talking about simon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 23:00:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17414159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdistheword/pseuds/nerdistheword
Summary: Simon Snow looks gorgeous all year long. It’s unfair, really. I’ve been in love with the boy for years, and he still manages to take my breath away, even after all this time. Even now that we’re together.(Baz gets sentimental about how beautiful his boyfriend is all the time)





	The Seasons of Simon

Simon Snow looks gorgeous all year long. It’s unfair, really. I’ve been in love with the boy for years, and he still manages to take my breath away, even after all this time. Even now that we’re together.  
Fiona says that some attractions die off after a relationship is established. Something about the spark going out. Coming from a woman who has never had a relationship with a man for longer than a month, I don’t give much thought to that philosophy.  
Knowing Simon—watching him slovenly eat, sleep, speak—probably should have turned me off to him, but it didn’t.  
I’m in love with him, day in and day out. Every season, year after year.  
In winter, he is a spot of warmth and light in an otherwise bleary, grey and cold landscape. He’s the warm light spilling from a window, shining out into a dark snowy street. He’s that patch of sunlight you bask in for as long as you can while frigid wind rolls past you. And it‘s stupidly ironic that his name is Snow, because he is the furthest thing from the white, frozen blanket that sweeps across the world. I do like him in winter, though. It reminds me of when he first kissed me in the flaming woods near the house in Hampshire, and changed our lives forever. Brave, impulsive fuck.  
Sometimes, when the cold has seeped into my already cool body, I want to find him and wrap myself in his embrace. Feel his strong arms around me and soak in his warmth. I want his wings to close around us and be cradled in all that is Simon. I want to watch snowflakes melt in his curls and banish all the cold from myself by just being around him.  
In spring, it’s even worse, what he does to me.  
Those simple eyes match the sky, and the roses in his cheeks are prettier than any flower blossoming to life outside. Simon was made to match all things beautiful and brave, I think. I see him in the courageous buds that sprout from the thawing soil, in the little leaves beginning to unfurl from tree branches. And when it rains, and his curls are flattened to his head, and water is rolling down his broad shoulders and clinging to his square jaw, I want to follow the refreshing trails with my lips.  
He would no doubt mock me if I told him that sometimes I want to put flowers in his hair, or for him to hold my hand and lie down in a grassy field and just listen to all the life blooming around us. But I think he’d do it, after he took the piss. He’s not as dreadfully sentimental as me, but he is soft.  
When summer comes, with its long days and sticky heat, sometimes I can’t decide if the sun makes my eyes sting more than Simon does. It’s like he absorbs the sun’s glow and returns it back in full, or maybe he creates that light all on his own. He is gold and bronze and warmth and everything bright and alive. He looks like he belongs in the cloudless sky, rather than on the ground. If he stands in the sun, it almost makes a halo in his hair. His eyes are so clear and blue, like the cloudless sky above. He almost looks demonic at times as well, when his wings are lifted and spread outward and the sun shines dimly through them, illuminating vines through the leathery appendages.  
Nevertheless, Simon is the sun, or at least an extension of it. And I have no problems crashing into him. Sometimes, we stay up at night and stargaze, and I trace constellations on the miles and freckles on his arms and chest and back. No matter how many times I trace them, he always forgets what on his skin corresponds to the burning balls of light billions of miles away. I have no problem retracing them over and over again.  
Autumn does not grant me any reprieve either. Simon matches the changing leaves perfectly, shades of yellow and gold and bronze have a home in him as much as they do in the dying leaves clinging to the branches of trees and piling up on the ground. His wings and tail also belong, matching up with the occasional shocking red foliage. He’s warm and comfortable and eats every seasonal baked treat he can get his hands on. Being close to him like I am in autumn brings back foggy but painful memories of Watford, when I would half dread and half anticipate seeing him again after the too long but not long enough summer holiday.  
If I’m not thirsty, sometimes I trace the veins in his hands and arms like one would on a leaf. I kiss every single one of his calloused fingers and knuckles, and drape myself over him like a blanket. He doesn’t mind my clinginess, and strokes my hair before we fall asleep in front of the fire with our teas on those evenings while the sun sets earlier and earlier. He jumped into a giant pile of leaves, once. I laughed at the way they stuck out from his hair like a bird’s nest until he pulled me in with him, and we kissed surrounded by the itchy but somehow satisfying feeling of being mostly submerged in a leaf pile.  
Simon Snow is bloody exquisite all year long.


End file.
